Just Another Monday
by ComicalEpiphanies
Summary: Running out of the house without breakfast, risking the carbs in a muffin, battling vicious traps set by enemy spies, being a nice guy... It's just another day for the head of the techs ops for the DPD. A two-parter.
1. Part One

**A/N: Hello all! This fic was originally going to be a one-shot, but it came out being almost twenty-three pages, so I've broken it into two parts. Those of you who've been to my profile or know me know that I write a lot of Daredevil fanfics. For those of you who don't have a clue who Daredevil is, I'm just going to say he's a blind superhero. My beta from that fandom is extremely conscientious about the little facts (and rightly so), and she's taught me a lot of the little things that make the story true. This story is the cultivation of all the blind-living things she's taught me or caught me messing up. I've only fudged a couple of details here and there to add humor or move things along. Unfortuanitly, something no amount of internet scrolling can tell you (trust me, I spent WAY too long trying. It's either ridiculous or in binary) is details on spyware. ****On another note, it wasn't easy going from writing a blind guy with super senses to a normal blind guy. I had to stop myself from writing about hearing heartbeats and the like!**

**This is dedicated to Girlwithoutfear, my beta from the Daredevil fandom. She taught me to do my research or face the wrath of her red pen.**

Just Another Monday, Part One

I slap my alarm, accidently hitting the talk button instead of the snooze.

"_Five fifty-five_, _Monday, August 2, 2010,_" it says in its broken English. I once tried to make it sound more human, but I quickly realized it was a lost cause. The thing would always be annoying, especially this early in the morning. At least now it's a female, not some hermaphrodite flight attendant.

I groan and turn over before greeting the darkness. It takes me a moment to blink away the residual colors left over from one of my better dreams, one that doesn't involve fire or guns but still has red, green, and my favorite, blue.

At my closet, I run my fingers over the labels sewn into the clothes, contemplating whether I should forgo my favorite vest for a nice button up. I go with the vest. A guy's gotta have some comfort on Mondays.

I have to have breakfast on-the-go because I took too long in the shower. It's a terrible way to start the morning, running to catch the subway with a banana in your mouth. It's a bad omen.

Someone grabs my arm at the stoplight across the street from the subway station. The first time it happened, I jumped and nearly killed the guy, but now I only startle a bit, if any.

"Can I help you across?" The slightly too-loud voice and vice-grip belong to an older woman. From the smell of her perfume and sound of her voice, I'm putting her at fifty. She is much shorter than I, and she's almost yanking me down.

I put on the smile I learned a long time ago. I've been told it looks like I'm going into the dentist's office, but I hope it's more of a I'm-okay/please-let-go grimace. "Thank you, but I'm sure I'll be fine."

"Are you sure, dear? It's not a problem."

There's only a few more seconds left before the light changes back to green. Either I wait out another cycle or I let the Good Samaritan "help" me across. I'm going to miss my train.

"In that case," I draw my words out to make her feel like I really did want her help, "if you wouldn't mind?" I offer her my upper arm.

"Where are you going? Do you need some help getting there? I could call a taxi, if you like…"

The woman is still chatting, but I tune her out. I focus on planning my assault on the new intel processor Joan asked me to check out. Encrypting the program to CIA standards shouldn't take too long–

SMACK.

The old lady ran me into a lamppost! If I'd wanted to bang my face in, I would have gone straight to the Agency's gym!

"Oh my goodness, I am so sorry!" The woman is flustered but definitely sincere.

"It's fine," I say, removing my hand from my shoulder. "It's partly my fault." I should have been paying attention. The number one rule of orientation and mobility: when you're being guided, always keep your cane in front of your body. I'd been so absorbed; I'd let my cane drift off.

I brush my shoulder unconcernedly. "No harm done. I've had worse collisions."

She seems a bit less guilty, thank goodness. She's not still hovering, at least. "I'm very sorry."

"It's okay," I interrupt again.

She's silent for a few moments (during which I'm trying to decide whether it's polite to just leave and try to catch my train), before she says, "At least let me get you a cab."

I've missed my train and the next one won't be around for a while. Joan hates when one of her staff is late. Plus, I haven't taken a cab to work in a couple of weeks. "If you insist."

"I do."

For an old lady, she can whistle. There aren't too many taxis around Georgetown, but one appears almost at once.

"Where to, Buddy?"

"6862 Elm Street. McLean." It's the address of the General Council firm a few blocks away from Headquarters and (for those of us who take a taxi to work) the standard drop-off. I turn back to the woman. "Thanks for your assistance."

"I'm sorry again. Let me pay for the fare. It's the least I can do."

I smile again. "I couldn't let you do that. No harm, no foul." I get into the cab. "Thank you again." I nod at the cabby to go and hope the lady won't insist on paying. I really am going to be late.

The cab lets me out in front of the firm, for once without chatter. It's a somewhat expensive fare, but Friday was payday.

I'm almost to the security station when something gooshes under my foot and a noxious smell hits my nose. Damn. Dog shit. There is an ordinance about that somewhere! Leave nothing behind, people!

I rub my foot viciously on the grass. These are the times when I really hate being blind. The cane is good, especially when I feel completely lost – it's a sort of anchor and that – but it's not that good. Somehow, no matter what, if there's dog excrement anywhere in my vicinity, I'm going to step in it and there's nothing a trusty white cane can do about it.

I'm going to be so late!

~OOOOOO~

"Trouble?"

I shove aside my thoughts of dog crap and intel processors and feel for the card reader before swiping my ID. "Just a normal Monday. You?"

Annie Walker, my best friend and the rookie to the DPD (she's still the new agent, even if she's been here for almost ten months), accepts my pre-offered arm.

"Same old. The girls were a bit hectic, as usual." She yawns and I feel her tense for a second before she relaxes into my arm again. "Coffee. I need coffee."

I grin and pull her toward the food court. "I couldn't agree more." The smell of freshly baked mixed-berry muffins slaps me in the face and my mouth waters like one of Pavlov's dogs.

"You're late," John, one of the retired agents turned coffee brewers, mentions as we draw nearer the succulent berries. I assume he's talking to me because Annie is always the last agent in. I'm usually one of the first. Whoops.

"Transport troubles," I explain. "I'd like two of those fabulously unhealthy muffins, one coffee with-"

"I know, the regular? Same for you, Walker?" John interrupts. One of the many good things about having ex-agents work in the food court is that they have excellent memories. Another is that they are much less likely to spill Agency secrets, but that's another matter.

"Yeah," Annie confirms. She snags the muffins before I can get them. I guess that means she wants one. I should have ordered three. "Your turn to buy."

I snort, but pull out my wallet. I'm pretty sure I bought the last round of beers Friday night. I feel for the dog-eared bill-–the twenty, then I remember I paid the cabby in cash. I pull out my last five-dollar bills. "I'll have to owe you the last dollar, unless…" I turn toward Annie, pulling one of my expectant looks.

I get the feeling she's rolling her eyes, but I don't really care. I hear John take her dollar. "You owe me," she mumbles.

"I'll let you keep a muffin."

"Good, but you'll still owe me a dollar. You wouldn't want to eat all those carbs, anyway."

I pretend to look affronted and reach for the coffee John held up to the back of my hand. "Are you calling me fat?"

Annie takes a sip of her coffee. I feel rather than hear her sigh in contentment. "I'm calling these muffins high in cholesterol."

"All the more reason." I wish I could reach for the bag, but my hands are a little full. With my laser cane (I'd replaced the bulker cane with it as soon as I'd entered the atrium) in one hand and my latte in the other, there wasn't much I could do without putting one of them down, and no way was I sacrificing either. "I'm protecting you."

"How so?" Annie opens the glass doors to the DPD and lets go of my forearm.

"You won't have to risk the carbs if I eat them." Got her there!

"Walker! Anderson!"

I jump and I feel Annie do the next to me. Joan does not seem happy. I shouldn't have dawdled in the shower.

"We have a meeting in five. Auggie, I want your assessment on the intel Agent Banks just brought in ASAP." Joan sweeps away in a cloud of peaches and spearmint and an echo of sharp heels.

"See you in the briefing," Annie whispers, handing me the bag of pastries. She's gone before I can comprehend much beyond the smell of the siren-ish muffins.

I shrug to myself, and head to my office. "Morning Stu, Greg." I place the muffins to the side and slip on my headphones.

My subordinates in the tech department stop talking about the hot agent of the day and return my greeting.

"Where were you, Aug? We were about to tell Joan." Stu rolls his desk chair up to mine.

"Got a late start." I pull the headset down to my rest around my neck as my computer begins its morning diagnostics. "Where's the stuff Banks brought in?"

I hear Greg, the resident hacker, shuffling some papers around. "Here." He tosses the hard drive to Stu who plugs it into to my computer. "I managed to circumvent the autodestruct."

I turn toward his voice. "There was an autodestruct? Why?"

I hear Greg shrug his shoulders. "Banks says he just took the whole drive. He said there wasn't enough time to clean it."

"What's supposed to be on here?"

"You know, normal intel. Nothing special," Stu replies. He's a great engineer, but he has little patience for the weeding and decoding. I'm not going to lie and say it's not a little annoying sometimes.

"I gotta go to the debriefing. Greg, what are you working on?"

"I'm monitoring the feds. They're keeping tabs on the rogue IRA agent Wilcox is supposed to be tailing."

"Right. I'll tell Joan. Stu?"

"The new mics."

"The long range, undetectable, untraceable, should-have-been-completed-yesterday mics?"

At least Stu has the decency to sound ashamed as he mumbles yes. We were supposed to present a prototype to the directors at their next meeting. Next week. Looks like I'll have to make our excuses to Joan again.

Stu's lucky he's the best gadget-man this side of Research and Development, else he'd be on at least suspension. He has the bothersome tendency to get so absorbed in one task he forgets the others. Not a good thing in this business when you have to work fast and know priorities.

I decide to let it go this time. He knows what he's supposed to be doing. And I'm going to be late again. "I'm going to the debriefing." I'm almost out the door when I remember the muffins. I snag the bag and hear Stu growl in disappointment.

~OOOOOO~

I smell a hint of grapefruit as soon as I walk into the boardroom. I hear her clicking her pencil against the wood table and zero in on the sound. "Hey. Is everyone here?" I ask as I sit down in the empty seat next to Annie.

I hear her chair squeak and I assume she turned to look at me. "Everyone but Jai and Joan."

I hold up the bag and shake it a bit. "Muffin?"

Annie smiles, I hear the soft hiss of air whistle between her teeth, and she takes the muffin I'm holding out. "I was sure you'd already eaten them."

I shrug and pull the wrapper away from the bread. "I was going to, but the guys can smell a bit ripe. Need something to keep it away."

Annie snorts and I'd give money that her expression resembles a precocious child's after you tell them Santa doesn't exist. I laugh at the thought. "Fine, you caught me. I didn't have time."

She was about to reply, but Joan interrupted her. "These," Joan must be using a presentation, "two known Iraqi spies are going to exchange information at a restaurant in Arlington. Our sources tell us it is going to be an important conversation. We need to hear it."

I know where this is going. My guys and I are going to have fun. I grin over my fresh cup of coffee.

"Agents Walker and Wilcox are going under as dates. When the spies have the handoff, you will take a copy."

"How will the data be exchanged?" I ask.

Joan looks at me. "We have it under good authority that it's a digital file."

"Stupid," Agent Banks whispers to my left. He's right. Paper might be wasteful and bulky, but transferring information in a crowded restaurant via a cell phone or other handheld device holds a sizable risk of hacking, made more so by more and more buildings having Wi-Fi. I doubt the agents aren't aware of this, though, so it's save to assume they'll take precautions. More fun for my team!

"When do we go?" Wilcox seems raring to go. I don't blame him. If I were stuck on tail-duty, I would be too.

"It's a lunch meeting. Jai, you will arrive first at 1100 hours, Annie will follow you. Report to tech ops at 1000 hours. Dismissed.

"Auggie, stay here for a moment," Joan adds as everyone stands up.

I throw the muffin paper in the trash and wait for Joan to gather her files. "I think we can do a standard jam and lift."

"Hmm. I don't think they know they have been compromised. Have you got anything a little less hands-on?"

I have to think about it for a minute. I know Stu's been working on something for the seventh floor. "I'll have to talk to my team."

"Good. We want something clean."

"Course." I sense that the conversation is over and take out my laser. I know my way around at least this department backwards and forwards, but I learned a long time ago that it's safer on the shins to use the guider.

The laser warns me just before I walk into a chair.

~OOOOO~

"The range is only about ten feet, so sit as close to them as possible."

"Right." Annie takes our newest masterpiece. "Why is it always a blackberry?" she asks after a moment.

I laugh. "We have an exclusive with AT&T."

"Really?"

"No. They're just the right size." I reach behind her for the mic. "Here, put this in."

"So you'll be monitoring?"

I turn to look her, hopefully, in the eye. "I'm always monitoring. I make sure you agents don't screw up."

"Yeah, we're your conscience!" Greg interjects from his desk. "We make sure you don't embarrass yourselves!"

Annie sounds amused. "I guess you kind of look like a Jiminy."

She lost me somewhere. She must be referring to pop culture. I don't do much pop culture. Even before the accident, I was always a bit of the "huh" kind of nerd.

"Jiminy Cricket?" I guess no one got her point, if she has to explain it. "Oh never mind. Has Jai left yet?"

"Yeah. Your turn." I gently push her towards the door. "Go before he thinks you've stood him up."

"Wish me luck."

"You never need it, but good luck!" I reply as her grapefruit scent drifts away.

~OOOOOO~

"Will ya look at that! She's gorgeous!"

My eyebrow rises on its own accord as I hear Greg push off from his desk to look at Stu's screen.

"Look at the size of the rack!"

"Guys!" I couldn't hold it in any longer. I spin my chair around to face their direction. "It's not natural for humans to be drooling over a new computer!"

I can imagine their faces. They are probably looking at me like I stole Christmas.

"It is when the computer is this beautiful!"

Or not.

"Five gigabits of RAM with speakers that will knock your socks off, Aug. That's a gift from the gods!"

I have to admit, it does sound nice. My computer is top of the line by any standards, but even it pales under the computing processes of the new Mac. I wonder if Joan would spare some of the budget if I put in a formal request. Actually, screw that, I just want to touch it!

An urgent _BEEP BEEP_ issuing from my headset tells me we have a Code Fib. I run my fingers over the Braille imprint of the screen and have to force the laugh down. Some of the things agents think of for covers! It is enough to brighten this tech's day.

"Hey, whose turn is it on the fib phone?" I call out.

"Mine," Stu answers, dragging himself away from ogling the new equipment destined for the seventh floor. I feel him reading the information he needs to work in over my shoulder.

"You've got to be kidding me."

Greg joins us and promptly claps Stu on the shoulder. "You're up, Buddy. Make it good!"

"Twenty bucks says he doesn't get it out."

"Deal!" I hear Greg slap a bill on my desk.

"That better be a twenty."

"Course it is! Have I ever cheated a bet before?"

Stu's cough from back at his desk sounds suspiciously like "Christmas eggnog."

"That wasn't a fair bet. Hal would have spiked it if Joan hadn't caught him."

I reach for where I heard the bill land and hold it up. "Is it a twenty?"

"Yeah," Stu rules, before going back to either writing his opening (his job as fibber) or drawing the blueprints for the new combination breaker Joan asked for. Either way, he's working, which is more than I can say for Greg or myself.

"You don't trust me?"

I don't have time to respond to his over-theatrical reaction as the "fib" phone rings. I toss the Bluetooth to Stu.

"_Star Trek headquarters, where our mission is to seek out new fun. Is this your first conta-?_ What do you know, they hung up."

"Hah!"

I hold out the twenty, but just before Greg can take it, I snap it back. "Did he ask how he could help them?"

There is silence, then Greg says, "Doesn't matter. Didn't have to. It was implied."

"Naw, I meant to say it."

My smirk widens into a grin and I pocket the bill, while, I assume, Greg shoots Stu a hurt glare. My assumptions are proven correct when Stu mumbles something about it being the truth.

"A bet's a bet," I reply to my computer screen.

I feel something impact the back of my head, but I don't turn around. "Did you really just throw a grape at the blind BOSS?"

~OOOOOO~

I used to love the excitement of fieldwork. The way it gets the blood pumping and the mind racing. The way you have to go with your gut and your training. The way you have to trust something or someone or die.

When I was first getting used to the idea of being blind, the thought of losing that feeling of _life_ was what scared me the most.

I was stupid to think my days of adrenaline were over.

Annie had given me the syncing device as soon as she and Wilcox had returned from their mission. For once, everything had gone as planed. And by that I mean they'd only needed to talk (directly – they're always talking toward me when I'm in their ears) to me once when the new "Blackberry" hitched in the middle of the download.

I should have known it was too easy.

I was just about to start the standard battery of decryptions when the bug came online.

"We have a boogie," I say to the office and my computer screen. The virus is programmed to spy on our systems. I haven't seen this particular bug before, but I have to admit, even as I type back-codes and set up firewalls, it's damn good.

My fingers skim over the Brailed impressions of my codes as my ears listen to my typing. I wrote my screen-reading program myself. It is calibrated to my comprehension speed, but as useful as it is (and that's very useful), I have to go with my gut not to get lost in the stream of blocks I have to write.

As exciting as it is to plan an escape during a firefight, I live for this. Programs and codes are my game, and, if I may say so myself, I'm the best at my job.

I disarm the bug in less than a minute before it has a chance to grab intel or form a good foothold in the database.

"We're good," I say, yanking my headsets down to hang around my neck. "It's gone."

"New record, I think. Greg, you time it?"

"Forty-seven seconds, plus a few from before he said anything. What'd it manage to get?" Greg replies, actually walking instead of rolling to my desk for once.

I rub my forehead and estimate where they are. "I think it might have managed a look-see into a few dead missions before I noticed it, but I don't think it had time to plant anything. Can you see if Joan's in her office?"

I hear Greg lean his head out of the doorway and grunt a bit as he ducks back in. "Yeah. She's talking to Wilcox at his desk."

I stand up and turn on my laser. "Thanks."

I wait until Wilcox finishes whatever he was saying to politely butt-in. "Joan, I need to talk to you."

"Walk with me," she replies, gently touching my elbow to show me where she wants to go. I don't really need the tactile warning, but it's a habit Joan acquired a few weeks after I returned to work while I was still getting used to zeroing in on footsteps. There's no point in having her stop it now.

"The lunch rendezvous was fixed."

Joan's footsteps stop and she's looking at me. "How do you know?"

"Bug. I should have realized it was too easy to download."

Joan's long hair rubs up against the nylon of her dress, so it's safe to assume she nodding. "Did they get anything?"

"I think I caught it before anything important was compromised, but I suggest you have everyone run another sweep of their computers."

"What should they be looking for?"

I hear a chair wheel squeak somewhere to the right and I instinctually turn to look in the direction before I respond. "It's a sneaky bastard, but I'm ninety-five percent positive it is programmed to target files and tags. A general sweep of the documents and the standard spyware search should take care of everything."

My boss exhales slowly and nods again. "Okay, I'll have someone send out a priority memo. Good job catching it."

I nod as well and turn around to go back to my lab. I still have one more encryption to break on the Banks acquisition.

~OOOOO~

"Hey, Auggie."

I jump a little before the voice and faint, but distinct, smell of grapefruit register in my mind. I pull down my headphones. "Annie. Didn't hear you come in."

"What'cha working on?" she asks, peering over my shoulder to sneak a peek at my screen.

"Nothing much. You?"

Annie turns back to focus on me. "I'm done for the day."

"Really?" I press the button on my birthday present from the guys last year, my watch. I didn't realize it was already six. "Crap!"

"What?" Annie sounds surprised.

"I forgot. I have to return a favor for Mason upstairs. He wants me to take out his girlfriend's best friend or something."

"Why you?"

The corners of my mouth twitch. I know Annie didn't mean that the way it sounded, which, of course, just makes it all that much funnier. "Because I'm a handsome, dependable, employed guy who's single."

I can feel Annie's embarrassment from a foot away. "True, but so are a lot of guys here."

"Ouch!" I cry, still smiling. Then I shrug a bit. "Truth? I was the only handsome, dependable, employed bachelor who owed him a big favor and would agree to a set-up."

"Well," Annie jumps off her perch on Stu's desk, landing gracefully on her office flats. "I suppose I'll just tell Conrad you are otherwise engaged while we get drunk."

For a second my heart leaps and I contemplate going with her (Conrad drunk is always fun to listen to), but my stupid conscience tells me to forget it. Sometimes I hate being the dependable bachelor.

I don't let my regret show on my face as I say, "Tell Conrad he owes me a beer."

I reach for my collapsible white cane I have to use outside the building and hold out my elbow. "Accompany me outside?"

Annie laughs a little and takes my arm. "Just stop off at my desk for a moment so I can change my shoes."

In the parking lot, we part ways, but not before I say, "Wish me luck."

"You don't seem the sort to need it, but good luck." She laughs and pulls out of her parking space, leaving me to face my date.

**A/N: Thanks goes out to Lady Of Light 4 the elves. She graciously let me use her metaphor of Jiminy Cricket. I'll have the last part out soon. Please review.**

**9/19/10: I changed the other techie's name from Tom to Stu to fit with my other stories and the seeming general consensus around the fandom. If I missed any "Toms", I'm sorry. I've done too many simple edits on this page to bring the document from here into Word so that I could do a search-and-rename thingie. **


	2. Part Two

**A/N: Here is part two. I was a little hesitant. It is not as obviously humorous as the first part, but I hope you all find it funny nonetheless. I hope also that I hear more from everyone. I got a lot of alerts, but few comments. **

Just Another Monday, Part Two

A good agent is always early on a first contact. To be late is to be dead in the field. It only takes one ambush to never be late again. I am, therefore, at the restaurant ten minutes before the set time of seven thirty, even if I had to pay extra for the cab to get me here from my apartment so quickly.

The restaurant is nice, but not fancy. I tried to get Mason to agree to refund me considering he's the one who's making me do this (I don't normally like to be set up. It can lead to awkward moments), but he refused. That means we're eating on a CIA budget. I hope she doesn't drink too expensive wine. I decide not to risk it and make plans to order first.

I rub my hand over the linen tablecloth one more time. It's a bit rough, but somehow soothing. I've always loved the feel of pressed linen. I inch my hand forward and feel for the napkin and silverware. The napkin's folded neatly between the silver. I almost don't want to take the cloth. It always seems like I'm wiping my mouth on someone's origami.

I take another sip of ice water, wishing this woman would hurry up and arrive.

The couple next to me is newly wed, or at least, they haven't been married for longer than five years. They aren't feeding each other, thank goodness – that always drives me crazy – but from the sound of her heel rubbing against his leather shoes, they haven't grown past the footsy stage. Their conversation is rather mundane, however, so I focus my attention on the businessmen directly behind me.

There are five of them from the sound of it. I feel sorry for the guy closest to me. He is obviously the rookie of the bunch. They aren't listening to him much. The man in charge has a deep voice and it's drowning out the rookie's soft interjections. The second in command is a bit of a suck-up. He's making a few good points, but most, if not all, of them back up the boss. I would lay money that his suit is impeccable and his hair is greasy.

Most of my attention, though, is focused on the man I can only guess is the boss' relative. He keeps disagreeing with the head, but I have to say, he's doing it tactfully. His argument sounds strong, but then again, I've never really been all that interested in the stock market, so I can't be a good judge. I get the feeling the brown-noser doesn't like him much.

All in all, the table seems like the epitome of a business meeting and the very reason I didn't follow my mother's wishes when she wanted me to be an accountant.

I am so engrossed in studying the men and practicing my craft of spying, I jump a bit when someone timidly says, "Hello? Are you August Anderson?"

I scramble to my feet and gesture to the seat across from mine. "Auggie, please. And you must be Ms. Marshburg?" I wait until I hear her sit down before I do the same, just as my manners dictate.

"Patricia's fine."

Her voice is soft and awkward. I get the feeling Mason didn't think it necessary to mention that I'm blind. Great. Leave me to deal with it. I'm saving the receipt of this dinner.

In the deception course (or as we call it, the "Flirting" class) at the Farm, we're told that you have to hide what you can and spill what you can't. Our instructors use that rule of thumb when it comes to getting an asset to trust you, but I think the theory can still be applied.

"Yeah, I'm blind." Okay, blunter than perhaps she can handle, but it's not like there's another way of doing it.

"I kind of guessed that."

She doesn't even break a small smile. Not for the first time tonight, I'm asking myself why Mason had to choose me.

I listen to her fidget in her seat. Her hair keeps brushing against her shoulders, so she's probably looking around the room, avoiding me. If I want this date to end without mishap, I'm going to have to get her to look at me.

Dating used to be so much easier when I could see. I was top in my class in flirting – sorry, deception – and I've always had a natural way with women. But since the accident, I get more looks of pity than interest. No biggie, though, I don't need to marry this woman, just finish this date and then punch Mason in the jaw.

"I can promise you, I won't bite."

"What would you like to drink tonight?" the waiter breaks in before she can respond. "We have a fine selection of wines or perhaps you would prefer champagne?"

Frankly, I've never been a big fan of champagne or wine, but I think now is not the time to order a brew. "Una bottigila di Ecco Domani Merlot, per favore." I slip into the Italian without even realizing it until I've already started.

"Molto buon. Qualsiasi annata in particolare?"

I have to think about that for a second. I haven't had to remember good wine years in a long time. "Scegliete. Vi fido."

"Grazie, signor."

Patricia waits until the waiter disappears into the crowd before asking, "You speak Italian?"

I try as best I can to meet her eyes. "Enough to get around. I spent a year in southern Rome."

I had a short (in CIA time) sleeper assignment to upset one of the more ruthless Italian mafias with a big cell in Rome. My language skills aren't in the same league as say, Annie's, but I'm not going to lie and say I'm not more than fluent in a couple of the romances, including Italian.

"What were you doing?" Patricia is warming to me. She's not fidgeting as much, at least.

I fight the urge to reach for my water. It's a trainee mistake to try and deflect a lie with a delaying action. I keep my breathing steady and allow a remembering smile to appear on my face. That mission had been far from a day on the beach, but there were a couple of good times with a woman that I let show on my face to add credibility.

"I was studying the language and government."

"I thought you worked with Ron?"

It took me a minute to realize who Ron was. No one calls Mason by his first name. "I do." I certainly hope I'm right in assuming Mason's cover is the same as mine. Of course, it's probably not going to bite me in the ass later.

"Oh." I can tell she's got another question bubbling inside her, but she doesn't want to ask.

I hear our waiter's rapid footsteps nearing our table, and I turn toward the sound. "Your menus, signora, signor."

My menu is in Braille. I shouldn't be surprised, the classier restaurants will sometimes have them, but I always am. It's a nice to be able to read the menu instead of having to depend on someone reading it to me or only choosing the specials. It is a pity I don't actually need one now. I always get my favorite dish.

"And your wine." He pours me a taster and I swirl it a bit before inhaling the rich aroma that sends me back to the field. He takes my nod of approval and pours first Patricia then me a glass before leaving the bottle.

I take another sip. I can feel Patricia's eyes following my every move and I almost wish she would go back to avoiding me. "Is there something you wanted to ask?"

All her apprehension is back. She's acting a little like a yo-yo. "How could you know that?"

I give her a lopsided grin. "I'm not deaf. You keep inhaling deep breaths like you want to say something, but you let the air out before you do."

While I've been speaking, I've been reading my menu. I know it's not exactly polite, but it's not like I'm breaking any eye contact. I've decided to go with my usual meal. I push my menu aside and place my hands flat on the table and lean in a bit closer to her.

"I bet I can guess what you really want to ask me." She starts to defend herself, but I smile a real smile and continue. "Yes, I when I was in Italy I could see, which answers your question about whether I was always blind. Your next question will logically be how I went blind. The answer is a simple accident."

Patricia must have recognized that I'm telling her this to break the ice, because she doesn't hold back her next question. "How long ago?"

"Have you decided what you would like for dinner?" The waiter has returned.

I sit up straighter. "I'm ready. Patricia?"

I hear Patricia straighten too. Her voice is a little stronger when she addresses our waiter. "Not quite. Could you give me a few more minutes?"

"Of course, signora." The waiter's voice turns back to me. "Would you like something in the meantime? An appetizer, perhaps?"

I'm already spending a fair portion of my paycheck tonight, what's a few more dollars? Plus, I have always had a weakness for parmesan-peppercorn. "We'll take one calamari, please."

The waiter scurries off to the kitchens and I turn my focus on my date.

"Everything seems so good," she says, her voice slightly muffled as it's angled at the table and not me. "What are you having?"

"I'm having my favorite, the capellini pomodoro. It's in the pasta section."

I hear her flip through the lists before she finds it. "That sounds good. I guess I'll have that."

The waiter's not heading toward us, so we sit in a semi-awkward silence for about a minute before I remember she asked me something before the waiter arrived.

"Almost five years."

"What?" Patricia sounds surprised. Either she was staring at something behind me, or at me.

"Since the accident. You asked me before."

"Oh. I'm sorry."

I hate it when people say that. It's not like they told me to go check out the dog-bomb or made me freeze when I heard the countdown. It's really kind of annoying after a while. "Why? It was my own fault and I'm used to it."

That came out gruffer than I expected, but after you hear the same irritating thing over and over again it gets harder to control the inflections. Patricia's clamed up again. Damn.

"My turn, what is it you do? Ma—Ron didn't say."

"I'm a dental hygienist."

The waiter arriving with our food saves me from having to think of an appropriate response. I take a risk and order both our meals. Patricia didn't seem to mind.

"How do you eat the, um…?"

"Calamari? Well, I'm partial to the white marinara sauce, but all of them are good. Would you mind handing me the white one, please?" She hesitates for a moment before taking my hand and putting the cup into the palm. It works, but it is slightly awkward positioning for me. I decide not to tell her that, though.

"I find that if I," I pause to put down the cup and pick up one of my two spoons, "put a little sauce on the appetizer plate," I find the plates and hand her hers while getting my own, and I quickly spoon some of the sauce on the side of the plate, "it is much cleaner than reaching across the table and dipping the peppercorn fondue style." I serve myself some of the breaded morsels and gently stick one with my fork and dip it in the sauce. I shrug a little. "Not completely traditional, but it works."

Oh, I'd forgotten how much I love calamari. The squid is a little chewy, but its fishy flavor is complimented perfectly by the creamy sauce. For a moment, I forget where I am. I guess my contentment shows on my face, because she giggles and I hear her following my example.

It takes a few more minutes, but by the time we're to the main dish, she's warmed up considerably.

~OOOOOO~

Patricia is a bit tipsy from the wine. Now that she's standing and I'm actually listening, I guess she's only about five-one. It makes quite a difference when she takes my arm outside the restaurant.

"My apartment's only a few blocks away." Her words are not exactly slurred, but a few more sips of wine and they probably would be. She cannot hold her liquor.

"It's a nice night. Are you up for a walk?" I don't wait for her answer before unfolding my cane. I hadn't needed it inside because she'd led me and there wasn't enough space to be wielding a long stick. I've found it can make people a little nervous in close quarters.

She tenses at the sight of the cane as if suddenly remembering I'm "handicapped". I'm not surprised.

This cane is a deadly weapon that can part seas of people, but it's also a flag that says (sometimes) too much. I used to hate going out in public with it, thinking it was a sign that I was weak and dependent. It only took one day on the street without it to realize that I'd rather be dependent on a piece of sturdy fiberglass than punched in the balls by a fire extinguisher.

I don't give Patricia time to clam up again as I start walking. She quickly regains her alcohol-fuzzy senses and loops her arm into mine to lead the way.

We stop outside her apartment building some minutes later.

"This is it," she says unnecessarily.

"Yeah." I hate these kinds of silences. She's not moving away from my arm. In fact, unless my gut's lying, she's looking up at my face. I can smell the garlic and basil on her breath. It's not strong enough to be unpleasant, per say, but it's not exactly roses.

"Do you want to know what I look like?" Red flags spring up in my mind. I was afraid of this! "You can touch my face if you want."

It is a complete fabrication that a blind guy can tell how you look if he feels your face. I mean, I can tell if you have high cheekbones or a hawkish nose or something, but that's about it. Touch isn't like sight. You can't really feel the big picture.

For those blind people like me, the ones who've had sight and can remember it, we can't visualize an image from our fingers. Sure, we can tell you if it's oval and bumpy it's an egg, but unless we have a visual memory to connect to, all we're feeling is a couple of bumps or a hot surface.

So when some semi-drunk date asks if I want to feel her face, I'm put in a difficult spot. I have two standard reactions after the red warning flags.

The first possible option is: "Oh, I get to feel her up." I may be blind, but I'm still a guy and getting a walk to second base is nothing to turn your nose up at.

The second option, more common now than before, is: "She could sneeze on my hands and give me swine flu."

In this case, it's the swine flu.

There weren't many people left in the restaurant by the time we left, but when Patricia first sat down at my table, none of the businessmen moved. While we were eating and their discussion was winding down, none of them made the effort to drop something so they could look at her, and when they left, they didn't step nearer our table.

Now if five businessmen are eating at a table, logic says that at least two of them are married. Social norms being what they are, it can also be assumed that at least one of the two is having marital trouble, and the three remaining probably don't get a lot of chances.

And even if the businessmen beat the odds and are not all unlucky in marriage or love, the very fact that her best friend's boyfriend had to set her up with one of his co-workers doesn't bode well for her chances even without adding in the bit about the only guy her best friend's boyfriend could get to agree to go out with her is blind.

My point is that Patricia must not be drop-dead gorgeous.

"It's okay. I know how you look," I respond.

She pushes away from me, suddenly angry. "Fine. Good night, Mr. Anderson."

I hear her unlock the door and shut it in a fury. Not the best way to end a date, but it works.

I sigh and start walking down the block. If I'm going to catch a taxi this late at night, I'll have to go to a more populated area.

I just want to go to bed. Tomorrow's Tuesday and Tuesdays are never better than Mondays.

**A/N: Well? Oh, the Italian might be a little faulty. I took four years of Spanish, but I can only say "Lo seinto, pero no hablo espanol." I used my translator and did my best to check the grammar, but who knows. If it's too painful for someone fluent, I'll change it. Remember to review! **


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